Are You In?
by just a bit foxy
Summary: [Pre- and post-Fall] John doesn't want to play Moriarty's game, but there is something irresistible about it. Can this man lead him to Sherlock?
1. Chapter 1

My phone dings, but I ignore it because I know it must be Sherlock and I'm quite comfortable on our sofa with no interest to move. He went out some time before I even woke up. I'm sure he means to ask me to bring him something, it's what he does. I'm as loyal as any pet, just like that Jim Moriarty said that day.

I turn the page in my book a bit more viciously than intended. My phone dings again.

No, I'm not answering you, Sherlock.

Another insistent ding.

I sigh and rise from the sofa, fetching my phone from its place in the kitchen. As if waiting for my hand, it dings again and the name I read is not Sherlock's. Jim Moriarty.

I stare at it and another insistent ding brings me back to the present. The message reads _Jubilee's, 5:30 _and I involuntarily glance at the clock. Why would I meet him anywhere? This is the man who put me into bomb vest. This is the man who wants to kill Sherlock - I am only collateral damage.

_What do you want?_ I send back.

_I'm waiting_ is the reply and I can almost hear it in his voice.

"John?" Sherlock says, letting himself into our flat. "John, are you here?"

"In the kitchen," I reply.

He appears by my side moments later and I've only just realized I've slipped my phone into my pocket.

"We need milk," he tells me, "and I forgot."

"You don't forget."

"Fair enough. I wasn't near it."

My lips twitch. "Thank you for your honesty."

Sherlock doesn't smile, but part of me believes just as soon as I've turned my back, he'll be smiling. He doesn't like to let me know I make him smile, I know that much. I don't know why, but I suppose showing anyone that he is legitimately human bothers him a little.

"Where were you?"

"Out. Any new cases?"

"No."

"I need a case. Get me one."

I smile.

"What?" Sherlock frowns thoughtfully at me. "What are you doing that for?"

"You're about as predictable as you say everyone else is."

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't say anything.

"I'm going out," I say, "so you're on your own for dinner."

"Ah. Well."

Another smile tugs at my lips. "Well, you're free to do whatever it is you do for sustenance."

Silence. Then, "Where are you going?"

"Dinner."

He eyes me. "I see. I may be out when you return."

"As usual."

"Mm."

I make for my room, wondering why I'm even going where I'm going. I know the answer, though, but I'll be damned if I admit it.

My phone dings once more, so I take it out in the privacy of my room.

_Don't be late, Doctor_.

I nearly hurl my phone at the wall. I hate myself for needing to know. For a moment, I blame Sherlock for instilling this desire to know in me, but realize quickly that is how it's always been.

"John?" Sherlock is standing in the doorway.

I look at him.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Fine."

I know it's pointless trying to fool Sherlock, but I can rely on him to get bored. I look away for a moment and when I look back, he's no longer there. He's retreated to his mind palace or he's out there monologuing to himself. He swears he thinks I'm still there, but I think it's a matter of loving the sound of his own voice.

Grabbing my jacket, I leave my room. Sherlock is standing at the window, arms behind his back. He doesn't look at me or say anything, so I slip out quietly. I don't want to chance disturbing him.

Once outside, I hail a taxi and tell the driver I want to go to Jubilee. I have no idea how close or far it is. All my senses are telling me to go back into the flat and tell Sherlock about the texts, but somehow I'm on my way and then I'm there.

I enter the restaurant and sure enough, he's there. He's wearing a suit and a smug smile. He beckons to me and the smile becomes wider and more welcoming. I clutch my phone, approaching him.

"Tell me what you want."

"Doctor, Doctor, don't you know it's customary to have dinner when one is invited for it?"

"Just tell me what you want, Moriarty."

"Jim. Call me Jim." He grins and gestures to the seat across from him. "Have a seat, _John_."

I stare at him until he laughs.

"Oh, you're _fun_, aren't you? No wonder he keeps you around. I'd keep you around, too, and I will. Sit, sit."

Seeing no other option, I sit.

"There. That was easy, wasn't it?" He can't stop grinning. It's getting wider and wider. "Now, did you tell Sherlock about our little _rendezvous_?"

"No," comes out of my mouth instantly.

"Ooh, keeping secrets! That can get you into trouble. Maybe I'll tell him."

"Or you can tell me what it is you want with me and -"

A waitress approaches us, setting down a basket of chips and some fish sticks. She smiles at us, nods at him and moves along.

"I took the liberty of ordering." Moriarty says. "I hope you don't mind."

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't believe you." He selects a chip and bites into it. Seconds later, he looks ecstatic. "They are the _best_ chips you will ever taste, John. Try them."

"Did you poison them?"

He laughs loudly, making everyone in the restaurant look at us. "Ah," he says once his laughter is controlled and he is wiping at his eyes, "you're such entertainment. No wonder he keeps you around."

I say nothing.

He smiles in a way that lights up his whole face and takes another few chips. He throws a careless look in the waitress' direction. A clatter immediately follows. When I look, I see her crouching on the floor, cheeks flushed and attempting to clean up.

I turn my attention back to the basket of chips between us. He raises his eyebrows at me and smiles.

"Don't be afraid, John. It doesn't suit you. You're fearless, aren't you? I think you must be, considering the lengths you've gone and will go. So loyal. Must be a retriever."

"I think there has to be other reasons you called me here." I say.

"Do you think I'm meaning to strap another bomb to you?" He smiles in a way I am not in any way comfortable with. "I gather you want Sherlock to partially undress you again, hmm?"

"I'm _not_ gay."

The smile he gives me makes me want to get up and walk out, but something is making me stay. "For Sherlock Holmes, anyone would give up what they usually want. Rare. So rare."

"I -"

"Yes, yes, you're not gay. I heard you the first time, but I'd have to be an idiot not to notice the way you look at him. Having his life in danger didn't -"

"I'm leaving." I stand.

He laughs. "Play my game, Dr Watson, and you can have everything you ever wanted."

"I'm not playing any game with you."

"We'll see. Goodbye, John."

I turn on my heel and walk out.

Twenty minutes later, I'm coming into the flat. Sherlock is on the sofa, staring off into space, though I assume he's in his infamous mind palace.

I close the door.

"John?"

"Mm," I say noncommittally.

"Pass me that pen."

I chuckle to myself and fetch him the pen off the table. He eyes me as he takes it.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Did you ask me for it earlier?"

"No. I knew you were out."

"Did you really?"

He waves a hand at me. "I'm busy, John."

I chuckle again and head for my room.

I set my phone down and it dings almost immediately after.

_Are you in? - JM_


	2. Chapter 2

I've decided not to reply to Moriarty by the time I leave my bedroom the next morning. There's no sense in it because it will only encourage him and that's the last thing I want to do. I don't want to be a part of whatever he's planning.

I know he's trying to get under Sherlock's skin though I personally don't even know if that's possible. The only one to do that was Irene Adler and that was a special circumstance. She was on another tier that I can't possibly comprehend.

Feeling as through I'm only going through the motions, I make some tea and head to the sitting room. Sherlock is already there on the sofa, twirling a cigarette busily between his fingers. His sleeves are pushed up and I can see at least four nicotine patches per arm. He glances at me, but his attention is soon on the cigarette in his fingers again.

I wonder where he got the cigarette because I threw them all out. I guess he could have some in his bedroom. I never set a foot in his bedroom. I don't ever plan to. Our common space is littered with enough interesting projects. Who knows what's in his inner sanctum?

I briefly consider telling him about the texts from Moriarty, but I don't want to worry him any further than he already is. Other people often forget that Sherlock's only human. He might be above us in some ways because of how he's able to see the little things that we only pass by. He sees the strange in the ordinary. He sees more than any person.

There's a reason he's the only consulting detective in the world and it's not the fact it's a job he made up.

"John." He says suddenly, his eyes on me. "Please go think elsewhere."

I smile slightly. "Good morning to you as well, Sherlock." I tell him, turning on my heel to retreat back to my bedroom.

For the rest of the day, I content myself on reading reactions from people on my blog. Every now and then I chuckle to myself because I just imagine the look on Sherlock's face if he read any of these. I can't figure out if he dislikes or likes my blog. I don't think I ever will.

Around dinner time, Sherlock appears in the doorway. "Dinner?" he asks.

"Hold on." I say, turning off my computer and getting up to fetch my coat.

Minutes later, we're calling goodbye to Mrs Hudson and leaving the flat. Another few minutes and we're at the Chinese restaurant we visited the night of our first case.

We sit at the same table. I order a drink and some food. Then _he_ orders a drink and some food. That is unusual and I'm sure my surprise shows on my face because he smiles vaguely.

"I have to eat, too."

"I never see you eat."

"Well, I'm never hungry the same time as you have been. Now I am. Simple."

I let it slide, even though it feels significant to me.

We sit in silence until the food comes and as we eat, I'm too interested to watch him eat to care about talking.

After a while, he sighs and sets down the chopsticks (he insists on eating Chinese with chopsticks because it's authentic) with a sigh.

"John," he says, "how do you think I've been sustaining myself?"

"Eyeballs."

"What?"

"You keep them in the microwave."

"It's an exp -" He starts laughing, shocking me and nearly everyone around us. "_John_, I don't _eat_ the eyeballs!"

"But that could be experimental."

Still laughing, he says, "I've never cared for eyeballs."

"So you've tried them. For experimental purposes, I assume."

He gives me a real, true smile.

"John Watson," is all he says.

We finish our meal, he refuses to let me pay (which is customary) and we head back to the flat.

At the flat, he tells me Mrs Hudson is expecting us for dessert, so we go partake in cheesecake she says she spent hours slaving over, just because Sherlock told her we wanted to come for dessert.

"I've got tea, too." She says. "You're looking a bit peckish, Sherlock, dear; let me get you a cup. John?"

"I'd love one, thank you." I reply.

Sherlock hasn't said anything. He's just observing us or perhaps he's gone inside his head. If he were in his mind palace, he would tell us to stop chattering, so he's not there. I do think he's somewhere else, though.

"Here's your tea." Mrs Hudson tells us, setting two cups down in front of us. She flutters over to her chair and sits, sipping her own tea. "I'm glad you gave me time to prepare. The place was a bit of a mess, though I suppose you boys don't mind mess, considering the state of your flat. May I remind you I'm not your housekeeper?"

She's trying to sound stern, but I can clearly see that she doesn't mind taking care of us a little. She enjoys having people to take care of.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, it won't happen again." Sherlock tells her. "John will start cleaning up after me."

"Sherlock!" I say.

"You will. You already do it."

"Sometimes."

"Often."

"_Some_times."

He smiles, but doesn't say anything more.

"You two ..." Mrs Hudson trails off affectionately.

We spend nearly three hours with Mrs Hudson, just talking and playing her favourite card game. You can tell she's touched that we're choosing to spend time with her. She's even more touched when Sherlock helps her put the dishes away without even being asked.

As we're getting ready to head upstairs, Sherlock claims he needs to make a call and leaves.

Mrs Hudson puts a hand on my arm to prevent me from following him as I am prone to do. "Sherlock's being such a dear," she says, "and I think it's your influence. He's been kind in his way, but you make him kinder."

I smile, unsure what to say, but it appears she doesn't need a response because she hugs me, says good night and lets me go on my way.

Sherlock isn't in the living room when I reach the flat, but I can hear the rumble of his voice from his bedroom.

"Good night, Sherlock!" I call.

Seconds after, he appears from down the hall, holding a hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "Good night, John." he says.

I smile slightly, gaining a smile in return, and watch him return to his room, closing the door behind him. I move on to my bedroom and am greeted with the chirping of my phone.

I sigh heavily and look at it.

_Time's ticking, John. - JM_

I shake my head, replacing the phone on my desk, and get ready for bed.

I don't reply to it.


	3. Chapter 3

I can't go into our flat. At the door, I hesitate, tremble and have to give up. I can't even take Mrs. Hudson's offer to stay in her guest room. Instead Mycroft arranged a small flat for me nearby so that Mrs. Hudson didn't have to go far to visit me.

Mycroft himself calls to check in, but he never mentions Sherlock. I'm sure he finds it all difficult to believe as well. Lestrade, who visits frequently, must think the same. They have to believe in him.

I keep asking myself why he wanted me to see him as a fake, why he jumped. Thinking about it too much has me locked in my flat for days until Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade or even Mycroft comes to drag me out. I need fresh air, they say, and sun.

My therapist makes me say his name and that he, my best friend, is dead. I leave our sessions feeling heavy in every sense of the word. I skip sessions which leads Mycroft to send a car to collect me so that I go.

Two months pass and nothing changes.

The third month rolls around and Molly finally reaches out, asking me to join her for coffee.

"I've been busy at work," she tells me, or else I would've rang sooner."

"It's fine." I assure her.

She looks at me for a long moment. "We could make this a weekly thing!" she suggests brightly. "We don't always have to do the same, though. We could go to museums, take walks or whatever you like."

"Sounds nice." I don't know if I'll take her up on it, but company would be all right. "I'll text you."

She smiles. "Okay."

Later that week, I tell my therapist about it.

"Are you interested in this woman?"

"No," I say, "she's Molly."

"She knew Sherlock, didn't she?"

I hate past tense.

"Might be good to distance yourself from –"

"They're all I have now." I interrupt. "I'm not going to stop missing me. You think a sexual relationship will help? I tried that. I don't speak to Sarah now. It was wrong."

"John –"

"I'm going." I stand. "I'll be looking for someone else.

My now former therapist nods minutely and I leave. Once I return to my flat, Mycroft's name lights up my phone.

"I'll find a new one for you," he says immediately, "so don't worry about –"

"Why do you help me like this?"

"It's what he would want, his personal feelings about me aside."

I'm silent, thinking. "I want to go back to Baker Street one day."

"I know and your Mrs. Hudson won't rent it to anyone else."

"I can't afford it alone."

"Leave that to me when the time comes."

"Thank you, Mycroft. I mean it."

Mycroft doesn't reply, just hangs up. I move to set my phone down as it lights up again.

_Hello, John. Miss me? – JM_

I stare at the text, disbelieving. Three months with nothing and now he's contacting me again? I don't understand. What is my allure to him now that Sherlock's gone?

_Surprised? – JM_

I bite my lip and quickly type.

_What do you want? He's gone. I don't have anything you want now. – JW_

I only have to wait a few seconds.

_I have something you'd want. – JM_

I snort at this and throw the phone down.

_It's not him, but it's his real note. Aren't you dying to know what it is? –JM_

I don't reply.

_Oops. Too soon? – JM_

Unable to help it, I snatch my phone.

_What do you think you think you have that I would want? – JW_

I wait, again for only a few seconds.

_His phone. I know it's not him, but it might hold some value for you. – JM_

I hate the realization that he's right. My curiosity, at least, is piqued.

_Where do you want me to meet you? – JW_

This time I have to wait a while.

_Don't worry about that. – JM_

Just then there is a knock on my door. I set the phone down and walk over, checking through the peep hole.

He's standing right there.

"Come on, John," he says, muffled by the door, "I know you're home."

Once again unable to stop myself, I unlock and open the door. He smiles at me.

"There we are. Now, stand aside. Manners, John."

I move aside. It doesn't feel like he's entering any kind of sanctuary; I wouldn't have let him into our flat in Baker Street, though I know Sherlock did that.

"Oh, this is kind of depressing." Moriarty says, looking around with a disappointed air. "Your flat you and Sherlock shared was so much nicer than this."

"Where's his phone?"

He holds up the phone. "Right here, but you can't have it yet. We need to talk first."

"About what?" I don't move away from the door even as he seats himself in an armchair, looking quite at home despite his earlier disappointment.

"Sherlock." He grins. "He's not dead, John. I tell you, he's a faker. He faked the whole thing."

Hope flutters in my chest, but I choose to be indifferent outwardly, surprised I can be inwardly. "You can't fake death. Not like that."

"I faked it. All I needed was a real-looking fake gun and blood packets in my mouth. He's alive as I am. Don't you want to find him? It can be our game."

"I don't want to play games with you."

"Oh, but John, I'm giving you information. The least you could do is play my game." He stands and comes over to me, quite adequately invading my personal space. "I give. _You_give. That's how it works. You know, you scratch my back, I scratch yours. Just think about it."

"Fine," I say, impatient and uncomfortable, "fine, I will."

He grins. "Good. And here is your prize." He hands me the phone. "I'll be in touch."

"Right." My attention completely diverted, I look at the phone in my hand. He always had it. It's a piece of him.

What if he is alive, my mind asks, are we going to play his game then. I don't have an answer for myself. I can't really think. I can't really do much of anything. Everything is swelling inside of me.

I hear the door click shut.

I look up.

Moriarty's gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** If possible, I'd love some feedback on how I'm doing so far. I'm trying to dig as deep as possible in John's psyche, so it would be nice to know what other people think. Thank you in advance and please enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock's phone is a reassuring weight in my hand. I can't figure out why Moriarty gave it to me, but if I'm honest, nothing about Moriarty makes sense to me. It strikes me that he is living proof Sherlock is - was? - not a fake. It also strikes me that I need the charger.

I grab my own phone and dial Mrs. Hudson. She answers cheerfully, seeming to be delightfully surprised it's me.

"What can I do for you, dear?" she asks once we've exchanged the usual pleasantries.

"Can you find Sherlock's phone charger for me?"

Silence.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

More silence. Then, "Dear, what do you need that for?"

"I've got his phone."

"How did you get that?"

"Someone gave it to me."

"Who?"

"Just an acquaintance of mine."

She is likely assuming it's Lestrade. "Well," she chirps, "I'll look for it."

"Thank you."

"I'll bring it round if I find it. Who knows where it could be?"

I find myself nearly smiling. She has a point. Sherlock kept things in strange places. "I'll make us some tea when you come with it or even if you don't." I tell her.

Mrs. Hudson makes a strange sound of noise. "Oh, John, that's so sweet of you." she says.

"You've been taking care of me. One day I'll find some way to really repay you."

"If you want to repay me, dear, find a way to be happy again. All I want for you is to be happy."

I smile a little, surprising myself. "I'll see what I can do."

"Talk to you soon, dear."

I end the call and set my phone next to Sherlock's. It'll be locked, I'm sure certain of it. How am I supposed to crack it? How can I know what he would use as a password? I don't think I can even think a little like him. No one can.

Sighing, I turn away from the phones and go to my computer. I open up my blog and then his. For hours, I pour over both of them, combing through them for any ideas. Are there clues anywhere? There has to be something somewhere.

Staring at the computer, I barely hear the knock at the door. I look over at the wooden face of the door and glare at it and by extension the person behind it. Can't they tell I'm in the middle of something very important?

"John?" Lestrade calls through the offending door. "John, I know you're home. I saw the light from the street."

Maybe I just left it on when I went out. I'm forgetful like that when I'm in a fog. I left a boiling pot on the stove three weeks ago and didn't realize anything was amiss until I came back into the kitchen fifteen minutes later to find water everywhere and the burned pot.

That was certainly one of my low points.

"John, come on." Lestrade sighs. "Open up."

I pull myself away from the computer and pad over to the door. I look at it for a few minutes, wondering if I'll think better of this, but when I don't, I open it.

Lestrade is standing there with his arms crossed. "Hello," he says, "I knew you were home. Guess I'm getting good at annoying you until you open the door."

"I was just doing something on my computer." I say, noticing he's looking around. "I haven't been drinking."

One of my other low points was two months ago when I drank myself into a stupor and Lestrade stayed all night, or so I believe, so he could look after me in the morning. I was surprised to find him there, but at the same time I wasn't. He's a good person. He was the one who brought me home after Sherlock's fall. I fully believe he and Mycroft coordinate so they can make sure they've always got eyes on me.

Wait.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He blinks. "Uh."

"Did Mycroft send you?"

"No. It was Mrs. Hudson, actually. She was going to come herself, but she had to go meet a friend." Lestrade reaches inside his coat and pulls out the charger. "Said you needed this tonight."

I reach out for it, but he holds it away.

"She thought I brought you the phone."

I smile. So I was right.

"Who brought it to you? It wasn't on him."

"It's complicated."

"I've got time."

I shake my head. "I say that because I don't get it myself."

"Ah," is all Lestrade says, but I can tell he wants to press me more. However, he hands over the charger, tells me good night and goes on his way.

I close the door behind him, making a mental note to thank Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, and head over to the phone. I plug it in and retreat back over to my computer. Again I pour over our blogs. I take pacing breaks, tea breaks and food breaks, but still nothing comes. Nothing tells me this is what the password is going to be.

I just look at the phone for about twenty minutes and decide I should just punch in numbers or something and see what happens. I stand and go over to it, looking at the locked screen. I've never used his phone. He used to use mine or make me use it to do something I'd much rather not do.

I start pressing in sequences.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing_.

I take it over to my computer and set it next to me. I huff at it and then at my computer. Neither of them will give me the answer I need, I just know it. That's the most maddening thing. It occurs me that I might be able to find it in our flat and immediately, uneasiness sets over me.

Can I go to the flat? Can I get pass all the emotions that flood over me when I'm even at the door? Will I be able to summon up the strength to go confidently up the stairs and search our flat? Can I even take what ghostly memories will be up there? I don't know, but I do know I have to try. I have to do it for him.

I scroll up to the first ever entry I made about him and recall telling my former therapist that nothing ever happens to me. Something happened to me that day. I didn't know it, then, but it was something I needed. I had to get past what had happened. I had to find a will to carry on and I found it in him, in my new friend. My _best_ friend.

It's hard to see the screen. I blink. It's still hard to see it. I give in to these emotions and just let myself cry right then, right now. I have to let it all out or I might just fall apart at the seams. I feel battered and pained and a plethora of other things. Then my red, swollen eyes fall on the date.

January 29th.

That's the date that changed everything. Did he think it too? Did he realize we would actually find more than flat mates at our first meeting? I think, somehow, that he did. I think, somehow, he knew we'd been good friends or at least, good partners. Maybe he'd needed me from the beginning.

No, no, I don't want to get ahead of myself.

I pick up the phone and punch in 0129. It denies it. Next, I try 2901 and the phone accepts it.

I stare at the screen.

"Unbelievable," I murmur, "what were you thinking?"

No one, of course, answers, but somehow I don't feel so alone anymore.


End file.
